Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [30]
And this was what he, Conall, experienced when he was alone—the sense of being at one with all things. It was so intense, so important, so precious to him that he was not sure he could live without it.
It was for this reason that now, in the wonderful silence of the sun’s rising, he shook his head. For here was the question he could not solve. Did you lose this great communion if you lived side by side with another? Could you share such things with a wife, or did you somehow lose them? An instinct told him that you did, but he was not sure.
He wanted Deirdre. He was sure of that already. He wanted to return to her. But if he did, was he going, in some way as yet unclear, to lose his life?
He was a good-looking man, you couldn’t deny it. Tall, balding, about thirty years old, she guessed, with a face that reminded you of a mountain crag; eyes black but not unkind. They had talked pleasantly enough and after a time, when he had ascertained her likes and dislikes and, she had to suppose, made some judgements about her character—and she certainly didn’t think his judgements would be foolish—she saw him give a little look to Goibniu which must have been a signal. For she saw that the smith soon afterwards took her father by the arm and suggested they walk outside.
So that was it. She was about to be married. She had no doubt the offer would be handsome. And, so far as she could tell, her future husband was a fine upstanding man. She could count herself lucky. The only trouble was that, at the moment anyway, she didn’t want him.
She rose. He looked a little surprised. She smiled, said she would return in a moment, and went outside.
Goibniu and her father were standing a little way off. They looked expectantly at her, but when she indicated that she wished to speak with her father, he came across.
“What is it, Deirdre?”
“Is it an offer he’s making for me, Father?”
“It is. An excellent offer. Is something the matter?”
“No. Not at all. You may tell Goibniu,” she smiled towards the smith, “that I like his choice. He seems a good man.”
“Ah.” Her father’s relief was palpable. “That he is.” He seemed ready to go back to the smith.
“But I’m wondering,” she continued pleasantly, “if there’s something I should tell you.”
“What is that?”
There was nothing for it now. Whatever the risk, she must take her chance.
“Have you heard of Conall, son of Morna, Father? He’s nephew to the High King.”
“I have. But I don’t know him.”
“But I do. I met him at Lughnasa.” She paused as he stared at her in amazement. “It was he that came here yesterday. And I think it was me he came to see.”
“You are sure? He is serious?”
“How can I tell, Father? We should need time to find out. But I think it is possible. Is there anything that can be done?”
And now the chief who traded cattle smiled.
“Go inside, child,” he said, “and leave it to me.”
“She does not dislike him?” Goibniu asked sharply upon Fergus’s return.
“She came to tell me she likes him,” Fergus said smiling, before adding gently, “well enough.”
Goibniu nodded briskly.
“Well enough will do. And the price?”
“It is acceptable.”
“We’ll take her with us now, then.”
“Ah. That will not be possible.”
“Why is that?”
“I shall need her with me,” Fergus said blandly, “through the winter. But in the spring …”
“It’s in the winter he’ll be wanting a woman, Fergus.”
“If his intentions are genuine …”
“By the gods, man,” Goibniu burst out, “he wouldn’t be after coming all the way from Ulster to this miserable spot if he wasn’t genuine.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Fergus said solemnly. “And in the spring she shall be his.”
Goibniu’s one eye narrowed.
“You’ve another offer.”
“Indeed I have not.” Fergus paused. “No doubt I could have had. But seeing it was yourself I was dealing with—”
“I do not like to be crossed,” Goibniu cut him short.
“She shall be his,” Fergus promised. “There’s not a doubt of it.”
“And you will have to be his, Deirdre,” he said to his daughter later, after their visitors had gone, “if your Conall